


Redux

by FleetingDesires



Series: Love Me Freely [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!Mycroft, Eventual Happy Ending, I don't know how to tag this without spoiling it, M/M, Sibling Incest, using his skills for personal gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: Sherlock has penned a letter.Mycroft gets to read it.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Love Me Freely [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986172
Comments: 30
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...PSYCH! 
> 
> Joke's also on me as I ended up also psych-ing myself because I couldn't leave _Secret Sentiment_ with that ending. It was eating me up inside. I hope you forgive me for being kind and rewinding to change the ending! 
> 
> I am still bewildered as to how I ended up with a series I never meant to write and in doing so, have done it back asswards. Oh well.

_He stubs out the butt on the edge of the windowsill before tossing it on the embers of the fireplace. After a moment, he tosses the letter along with it, before draping himself on the couch. He closes his eyes when he sees it alight with fire._

Or rather, he thought he did. Certainly, he saw it happen in his mind's eye. Smoke, write, burn. A ritual repeated ad infinitum over the passage of the years, and yet, this morning, he hangs on. His hand clenches around the sheets of paper he holds in his pocket.

He drapes himself on the couch nevertheless, free arm flung over a furrowed brow. He has not let go of the letter. _Sentiment, always with the horrid sentiment._ Behind his eyes, he flies through his Mind Palace, seeing the same scene, over and over again.

Smoke, write, burn.

Out of the pen and into the fire.

It burns, and yet he still burns. If fire is supposed to be cleansing, how many more times must he do this before he is finally clean?

Eventually, a fitful sleep comes to him, his dreams that of ink-stained fingers and auburn hair.

***

This is how Mycroft finds him an hour later: sprawled on the couch, wrapped around a cushion. Mycroft smiles sadly, for the only time he has seen Sherlock at peace in recent years are these few, chance moments he has caught him asleep, not from a drug daze or utter exhaustion but simply in repose.

His eyes drift towards the sheets of paper still clutched in his hand. How very unlike Sherlock to fall asleep to correspondence; one would have expected him to be in a tizzy of fury or excitement, depending on whether it bore a conundrum worth solving. Curious, he utilises all the training at his disposal to stealthily pluck the missive from his fingers, and unashamedly peruses it.

Consider this: how can a man purportedly made of ice suddenly feel like he is on fire?

It takes less than a split second to know that he will be stealing away with this letter, one more to cast a glance at his brother, and another to vanish.

***

He is restless and distracted all day, finding no reprieve from his thoughts even as his eyes flicker between intelligence reports, various members of Parliament, some inane meeting or other. Big Ben could have fallen into the Thames and he would not have had a clue. Anthea puts her foot down at 7pm and tells him in no uncertain terms that he is to leave the office and return only when he has got his head on straight.

She is even more worried when he does so without protest, racing to check the CCTV systems. She would have been notified by Sherlock's team if anything had happened to him, but maybe, just maybe? No, he is still kicking up a storm as usual, but Baker Street seems to be in a worse state of disarray than it usually is these days. Curiously, she watches as sheaf after sheaf of paper is tossed into the fireplace. After a few moments, she taps out some instructions so the police department doesn't go knocking. Even Sherlock Holmes needs catharsis sometimes.

***

The letter continues to burn a hole through his suit through dinner, until he can take it no longer and retreats to his lounge room. It is tossed on his coffee table, before he pours himself his usual finger of scotch. He stares into the tumbler for a moment before he tosses it back, then carts the whole decanter of it over to sit in front of the table, placing it next to the letter.

He sits, and stares, and drinks, and he twists the glass around in his hands so many times its bevelled edges have numbed the senses from his fingertips.

He doesn't want to open the letter, for fear that it was only ever in his mind.

He wants to open the letter and read it over and over until he can be certain to his bones that it was never only in his mind.

He turns the glass, round and around.

Finally, he has had enough liquid courage to pick it up. His eyes fly across the page, then move along at a caress.

He is hot, then cold, then some temperature he can't tell because his mind is bombarding him with memories. Still clutching on to the letter, he throws open a window, letting the cold night air slap at his face to gain a semblance of control. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and lets the tears fall. He leans against a nearby wall, sliding down it as his shoulders start to shake. He laughs, and he cries, and he laughs some more at how he is acting like a right fool. Mad, mad indeed! _Oh Sherlock, I'll show you mad._

With a sudden burst of energy, Mycroft leapt to his feet, striding to his study. He removes the contents of one of his hidden safes, placing them into a locked attache case. Sitting down at his desk, he pulls out several pieces of paper, and gets to writing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock knock.  
> Who's there?  
> Delivery for one Sherlock Holmes.  
> Delivery for one Sherlock Holmes who?  
> This is not a joke, sir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it very egotistical to squeal at your own work??? BECAUSE I AM. I hope you will too.

The next morning, a black town car pulls up to Baker Street, idling for but a moment before a shapely leg slips out. Seventeen brisk steps and two knocks later, Anthea thrusts the attache case into Sherlock's hands, together with a note. He snaps at her, while she tells him that her only instructions were to place these items into his hands. She leaves in the same whirlwind of efficiency as Sherlock yells out the door about his brother with the over-inflated ego.

With a growl of frustration, he looks down at the now-crumpled note in his hand.

_USWH,_

_For your eyes only. Cipher Alpha._

_AHSM_

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. When he was 10, he and Mycroft had started crafting puzzles for each other; he particularly loved ciphers after Mycroft had mused that pirates needed a good way to record, yet hide, the location of his treasure. Sherlock had scoffed and said, "I never forget anything! The only reason I would need to record the location of my treasure is to tell you where to find it so you could keep it safe for me." And so Cipher Alpha was born: by using permutations of their initials, transposing it and entering it as an x value in a formula, they would be able to encode six-digit longitudinal and latitudinal combinations. They had spent a week perfecting it, and another in front of an atlas. The week after, they set to work on Cipher Beta to convert those six-digit numbers back into letters so it could be used in coded messages. On and on that summer went, building a virtual Enigma machine in their minds.

He smiled softly, looking at the six-digit combination lock on the case. Sitting on his bed with it, he closed his eyes, going into his mind palace to find the dusty piece of information to begin working on the code. Two minutes later, the case popped open.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he was greeted with the sight of two neat rows of envelopes, three narrow journals tucked into the top pocket, topped with a small, red envelope. On it was scrawled, _Read me first._ Dimly, he wondered why Mycroft would have had gold ink… but that was a question for later.

Impatiently, he tore open that envelope. Scanning the message, he scrambled off the bed as fast as his lanky limbs would take him, staring at the case in fear and disbelief. The message had read,

_S,_

_This is my reply to your letter of 17 June, 2010._

_M_

So that's where that had went! Bloody Mycroft and his stupid training, why could he never– how did he even– ugh! He stormed out of his room, which was far too small to pace, but after a few rotations of the apartment, he found himself back at its threshold, staring at the innocuous rows as though he could will its contents into his brain that way.

His mind had been running amok wondering what the hell Mycroft could mean by _this_ , but now he quickly snapped out of it. _For god's sake, Sherlock, you are a detective. This is literally what you do for a living._ (He ignored the fact that the voice in his head sounded like Mycroft.) Rolling his eyes at himself, he settled back on the bed, analysing the contents of the case.

It was obvious that the envelopes were of different ages and had been sorted chronologically, that some of the middle ones had seen time squashed in a soft bag, probably a backpack from the manner in which it was creased, that the quality of paper had gotten better over time, explanation being obvious as Mycroft was nothing if not a pompous bastard, and the uneven fading of colour of the journals indicated that it had been regularly used by fumbling hands.

As each deduction whizzed through his mind, he came reluctantly to the inexorable conclusion that these letters spanned the time from before Mycroft's field agent years, into them, and out the other side. He wasn't very sure about the journals, but at a guess it would have been something kept by his bedside, or in a desk, for short bits of writing or recording, probably.

His blood pounding a beat in his ears, he reached first for the last envelope, all sharp lines and sharper corners.

_Sherlock,_

_Please start from the first one. You have nothing to fear from the contents of this case_.

_M_

_P.S. Of course this isn't the last latter._

He rolled his eyes, putting it back in the case. He gently ran his fingers across the letters, letting the edges gently abrade his fingertips, focusing his mind on his now-tingling nerve endings. Inhale, and exhale. Inhale, and… he plucks the oldest letter, opening it cleanly with a knife even as his fingers trembled.

Crossing his legs, he starts to read.

_15 October, 2002_

_My darling,_

_Always my darling, my darling, my darling… I wonder if I will have the courage not to toss this into the fire after all. I cannot bear to watch my words to you crumble into ash for much longer. So maybe against all prudence, this will be buried under several layers of steel and with the hope that I will be gone before it is ever read. The life I lead is a dangerous one, and if you are reading this, I suppose I can take some cold comfort in the grave that my wish was granted._

_Look at me, playing at being coy even on a letter I am quite sure you will never read. The truth is, a much greater part of me wishes that you will be reading this under happier circumstances. That hope is a spark that reminds me, in times where my work takes me to places I do not wish to go, that somewhere in me still lies a heart. One singed by the most illicit of yearnings, true, but an existence nonetheless._

_I sit here in my new flat and wonder if you will ever share this space with me. Should I have a room done up for you? Even though I would rather you share mine?_

_I can feel you beating against the confines of your life begging to be free. Don't worry, my dear, you will graduate in just a few short months, and then you can terrorise the streets of London, and woe be unto anyone who gets in your way._

_Will you call me when you finally arrive? Will you ask to stay? Ask my advice on learning the city? Ask me of anything, really, or everything?_

_Darling, let me be your sanctuary. In whatever capacity you would have me, I would gladly be it._

_Always yours,_

_Mycroft_

In… disbelief? Terror? Relief? Or maybe sheer lunacy, he reaches for another letter before he is conscious of it, and another, and another. He pulls at his hair, at the shirt on his chest, as every letter gives him pain and ecstasy in equal measure.

_9 August, 2003_

_My irrepressibly brash darling,_

_Mummy tells me that you refused to read my letter and tossed it into the fire. I am so sorry I failed in my promise to you that you never knew I made. I am now arranging to come off active overseas duty so this will never happen again. I wish you would have read my letter telling you same._

_I will be on my way home to you soon, as quickly as I can manage it. This_ _will_ _be my last. Darling, please forgive me and let me make it up to you._

_You don't know how happy it makes me that you came to me when you needed somewhere to go. I am broken beyond words that I wasn't there for you. I swear to you, my love, from the moment I touch down on London soil, I will arrange to always be there for you. Please, please don't push me even farther away. I don't know how I will bear it._

_Always yours,_

_Mycroft_

_**_

_5 July, 2004_

_My darling,_

_I am sitting by your bed, living and dying by each beeping beat of your heart. My darling, you_ _have_ _to come through this and live. Don't make me contemplate a life without you. For all our troubles, for everything, I would endure it a thousand times over. Please wake up soon. Give me a hope for a future that I can tell you how much I love you. Or don't, but simply survive._

_Always yours, even if you won't be here,_

_Mycroft_

_**_

_2 January, 2005_

_My darling,_

_I simply had to race home after New Year's to write this letter. You were the most incandescent as you've ever been, and I'm so glad that rehabilitation did you well, even though I had to drag you quite literally kicking and screaming to it._

_It is a special brand of insanity to be in my position. Loving you as I do, in all the acceptable and unacceptable ways. Even as you jab and jeer at me all I can feel is thankful that you are able to do so; that the drugs have not taken your life or your mind._

_Watching your eyes flare at me across the dinner table in shared exasperation at our family. Watching them flare at me in anger a moment later in an attempt to erase that split second in which we were on the same side, against what felt like the rest of the world._

_It was that way once. Why have you placed me on the other side of the divide now, my darling? It must surely be as undeniable to you as it is to me that this is an arbitrary line you've drawn in the sand. No matter how you speak to me, surely you must feel that our connection to each other still exists. No one else understands me like you. Even your barbs are sometimes so layered that only I would understsand its full meaning. It confuses me, yet soothes at the same time to know that we are inextricably linked by virtue of our shared intelligence._

_I ask myself, what kind of man does it make me to love you like this? To love not in spite of all of it, but because of your wildness, contrariness, unpredictability; your passion for life. The latter being a funny thing to say about one who has overdosed more than once, but I understand. The world is often too dull and slow and time drags on, each boring second a wasted one for a genius mind that can solve impossible problems six times over before breakfast._

_I often wonder what I would do if you were mine. Maybe I'd set you ten impossible problems each day to solve before I came home to you in the evening; maybe I'd throw it all in to scour the earth with you, finding the actual impossible problems of the world and bring them to heel, just for the satisfaction of it. Maybe I'd just hope to quieten your mind by keeping you sated and in bed. How fantastical of me._

_I dare not hope to gain your brotherly affections again, and much less something even dearer than that. I only wish that in this new year you will forgive me for whatever it is I did to earn your wrath and allow me to be a friend to you._

_Always yours,_

_Mycroft_

There is more, there is so much _more_ , but he is worn down and worn out by the deluge of sentiment that he never expected. He can no longer resist the siren song of the last letter. He must know what Mycroft intends by giving this to him.

_18 June, 2010_

_Sherlock,_

_I know not how or where to begin. For once, I am writing in the expectation that you will be reading and judging me on the contents of this letter._

_By now, you will have read enough to understand my feelings for you. Please forgive me for absconding with your letter of yesterday; I'm sure you understand why I had to. It was an unbelievable, heady thing to have read of your own regard for me that I think I must have quite lost all sense or reason for a time._

_There is nothing more to say that has not already been said in these letters, and yet, I continue to write to try and attain a perfect expression of it. In a way, this is my own pirate's treasure hoard; these are the longitudes and latitudes of my love for you._

_I have shared this with you in the hopes that we might come to a ceasefire on the hostilities between us, and make our way towards a friendship of sorts. I do not presume to ask you to pursue anything else in these letters; after all, this would not be an affair that either of us should embark on, regardless of whether I wish it to be different. We shall say no more of it if you decide against it, and I will still be here for you whenever you need me. Nothing need change if you do not wish it to; if I do not hear from you, I will assume as much, and act accordingly._

_Always yours,_

_Mycroft_

Briefly, he wonders at how stupid Mycroft had gotten in the mere length of a letter. How a can man confess to loving in one sentence and so throughly discourage its consummation in the next is disconcerting, irritating, and infuriating in equal measure. He doesn't have the time or inclination to work it out right now, because despite all the caveats marring a perfect present, a simple phrase has stuck:

 _My darling, my darling, my darling._ It echoes in his mind, gently, softly, loudly, insistently. Mycroft did not write it once in the entirety of that last letter and he instantly feels like he has been deprived of it. He has never heard Mycroft's mouth curl around that word before and though he might imagine it, he needs now to hear it said, out loud, manifested not only on paper but in the air to be heard and felt and absorbed. The sentiment is so much larger than the small space it occupies on the page and without realising what he is doing, he packs the letters back into their spots in the case, and flies out of the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter is almost done, and I am still squealing all through it. I may never stop. These boyssssss.
> 
> I have no sense of good timing in these things. Do my metrics suffer? Yes. Do I care? A little bit, but mostly no because I am always super stoked to hear what you think about it! xxx


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile, Mycroft does not so much work as bury himself under a ton of intelligence and responsibility. In quiet desperation, even Anthea has had to procure secretarial help from Lady Smallwood's pool, just to enable the man to go through documents and analysis at a steady, inhuman rate. She had never quite realised the true depths of her boss's talented, trained intelligence until today, and she very much doubts that he has ever demonstrated it quite so flagrantly before.

Mycroft is only forced out of his robotic daze when night had long since fallen, and he blinks stupidly at Anthea when she tells him that there is absolutely nothing pending that will not keep for another week or two. He knows instantly, of course, that this is a lie, but the reason why… Ah. He sees her day written all over her, from the pen in her hair to the minute run at the calf of her stocking. Not to mention, of course, the look in her eye that practically screamed her concern. Mycroft sighed, picking up his phone for what felt like the millionth time that day. _Still radio silence._

He glanced at his computer screen. He _could_ write an advisory note (that really, nobody asked for because nobody knew of the problem in the first place) to the Minister of Transportation (he _did_ nominally work there), or he could spend a couple more hours micromanaging the operation in Minsk, or… he guiltily slid his eyes back to Anthea, who cocked a brow at him.

"You could go home before me, you know," he said, unwittingly doing his best impression of a petulant child.

"Yes, but I will have to come back in three hours when my email blows up with Minister's aides and assistant deputies of the heads of intelligence begging me to drag you away from the office," she replied calmly. "So if you don't mind, sir, may I convince you that this would be an appropriate time to go home?"

Mycroft looked at his phone again, and sighed. "Yes, alright." He gathered his things, and as he strode out the door, he turned to Anthea. "Thank you, Anthea, for running this office so marvellously well. And for everything else you do for me, I do notice it, I assure you." _Like not asking me why I've been a maniac these past days_.

"Of course, sir. Your car is already idling out front. Rest well, sir."

Mycroft had half-swung around, before he realised it. "A foregone conclusion, was I?"

"You're a very good boss who wouldn't sacrifice my sleep unnecessarily, sir." Anthea grinned.

Mycroft grunted and waved her off, trudging wearily towards the car. Towards an empty home, an empty life… he sighed inwardly. Well, at least he'll always have good old Lagavulin for company.

When he arrives home, he bypasses the kitchen, heading instead straight for his lounge room, and for the decanter of whisky he had left the night before on the coffee table. It may be an unhealthy coping mechanism, but what is a man to do after a long, disappointing day?

What he finds instead, has him pausing on the threshold. His coffee table has been moved away, leaving an expanse of rug on which letters, _his_ letters, are scattered, hither and tither as if a strong gust of wind had mysteriously been conjured in the room. But no, the only force of nature present in this room is Sherlock, sitting amidst the chaos, leaned against and head tipped back on the couch, dozing,

Mycroft just stands there for a while, simultaneously relieved, overjoyed, and terrified. He knows what he wrote, and he knows what he truly wants this to mean, but he doesn't know what Sherlock has decided to do. For all of their lives, Sherlock has been the one uncontrollable, unpredictable factor that throws all projections into disarray. Just in case, he leans against the doorframe, preserving this scene in his Mind Palace for posterity, but even in his unconscious state Sherlock must sense him nearby.

His eyes flutter open, searching the room for a moment before he locked his gaze on Mycroft.

Mycroft smiles softly. "Good evening."

"Hi," Sherlock croaked. Clearing his throat, he tried speaking again. "Why didn't you wake me?"

_Because you're here. Because I wanted the moment to last forever. Because I am simultaneously hoping and condemning myself for hoping that everything is about to change. Because I desperately wish that I could come home to this everyday. Because I love you._

"I was–" _enjoying the view–_ "appreciating the tableau you had gone to the trouble to set."

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the letters strewn around him, blushing slightly. He stayed silent for a few moments, shuffling some of the letters to and fro on the ground, before huffing out a breath. "I've been here for hours, reading and thinking what to say, but everything sounds trite and insufficient in my head. Except, I do know that I want to tell you that you are an extraordinarily stupid man, Mycroft." He raised his gaze back to Mycroft, now filled with the familiar blaze of challenge. "You give me all of this, _this_ , and ask me to be _friends_? Are you quite sure that _I'm_ the stupid one?"

Mycroft gaped ( _exactly like a goldfish_ , thought Sherlock) for a moment before snapping his jaw shut. "It would have been wrong of me to ask for anything more. I cannot ask you to live your life in the shadows with me. I have made a career of it, and I do not mind, nor could I change the situation even if I did. But you, you who traverse both shadow and light seamlessly, have crafted for yourself a life in which it is fathomable that you may feel differently about…all of this, and have the opportunity to live a full, open life without…it. So while you may eventually never want to see me again when that happens, or if we return to antagonism, a few good years of camaraderie seems a good bargain to be made in the circumstances."

 _Damn Mycroft and his stupid metaphors._ Sherlock furrowed his brow for a moment. "It is rather too late for that, Mycroft. It may have been too late even before this, but it is definitely too late now. Did you truly think there could be any other outcome from granting me the one wish I have ever truly made in my life? Perhaps one letter was not enough to convey the depths of my sentiments, but then, I hadn't expected that you would read it. I don't want to be your _friend_ , Mycroft. I don't even want to be your brother, and I do not mean that definitionally because I cannot change that. No, Mycroft. I don't give a toss about shadows or light or whatever ridiculous metaphors you may come up with. I cannot be your friend. I must be more, or nothing."

Mycroft simply stood, torn, before he strode forward, sinking to the floor next to Sherlock. He tipped his head back to the couch, and closed his eyes. He struggled for several long minutes, brow furrowed, conducting a war between his head and his heart. He tipped his head to the side to look at Sherlock, and was surprised to find that Sherlock had propped his own head alongside Mycroft's, looking right back at him.

He allowed his eyes to drift over the features of Sherlock's face: the arched brows, swirling blue-green eyes, defined cheekbones, and to lips that he had always felt were fairly begging to be kissed red. He must have lingered for a second too long, because he watched as it tilted up into a smirk, and he jerked his gaze back to Sherlock's eyes with a blush. "Must you be quite so alluring?" He murmured, almost to himself.

"I haven't done anything besides look at you."

"Then you should stop looking at me, and allow me to gather the fortitude to do the right thing."

"I think we might disagree on what that would be." Sherlock moved even closer, almost brushing his nose against Mycroft's; his body a whisper away. Mycroft's hands twitched involuntarily in his lap as he itched to reach out.

Mycroft dipped his eyes back to Sherlock's mouth. "You'll ruin me when you get sick of me."

"Never."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because my sentiments are fact, not deduction." As Sherlock leaned in to kissed him, Mycroft simply surrendered to it, fluttering his eyes shut and kissed back with an equal, gentle pressure. It shouldn't have been surprising to either of them that it felt as natural as breathing, and equally essential.

" _Sherlock_ ," he whispered as they broke apart.

"No, call me something else, _please_."

Mycroft's brow furrowed as he met Sherlock's pleading gaze. "Something else?"

Sherlock merely reached for the floor, and pushed a seemingly random letter against Mycroft's chest. With a confused look, he started reading one of his own letters, before he realised it, midway through. Meeting Sherlock's eyes, he said, " _My darling_?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he placed a hand on Mycroft's cheek. "Say it again."

"My darling," Mycroft murmured, melting into the touch.

"Again."

Mycroft smiled. "My darling, my darling, my darling–" All at once, he found himself pressed firmly into the couch by a lapful of Sherlock, electricity running through his veins as Sherlock held his head in place, and kissed him deeply.

Mycroft groaned as he held on to Sherlock's waist, letter forgotten. As he opened his mouth, Sherlock immediately took advantage, his tongue delving and licking and tussling with his own. Mycroft's head spun as he acted purely on instinct, his hands immediately travelling across Sherlock's body, exactly as if he had been starved from this touch for all his life.

As Sherlock ground his hips down on Mycroft, their eyes flew open, locking onto each other as their erections strained against each other in their pants. They panted into each other's mouths as Sherlock slowly rolled his hips, creating a slow, delicious frisson of tension up his spine. He continued his protracted torture of the two of them until, with a growl, Mycroft flipped him to the ground, pinning him there above his letters with his hands and hips. He rolled his hips a little more insistently while he took his turn plundering Sherlock's mouth.

However, before either could reach a point of no return, Mycroft stopped moving, pulling a whine from Sherlock. Mycroft smirked, but said anyway in a husky voice, "Do you think perhaps we should take this a little slower? I'm still not sure that you're aware of all the dimensions of the relationship you are proposing, or even the dimensions of that relationship."

Sherlock's mind was spinning, or running high on endorphins and lust, or possibly just spinning on endorphins and lust. The point is, the only thing he really cared to talk about, right now, was the insistent weight of Mycroft's cock against his own. Better yet, he wanted to keep rubbing against Mycroft like a dog in heat, regardless of how undignified it may be. He tried to roll his hips, but Mycroft had had him firmly pinned down; he threw his head back in a pure, unmistakable sound of sexual frustration.

Eyes blazing, he said, "I can barely think right now, let alone string enough thoughts together to address…everything," he finished uncharacteristically lamely.

Mycroft couldn't help but let his smirk spread, his male ego supremely satisfied at having reduced the great mind of Sherlock Holmes to such a sorry state. He dipped his head down to nibble at Sherlock's delectable jaw, making his way to his earlobe, and back down to his neck. Finally, he reluctantly lifted his head to speak. "My darling, you can certainly feel how much I want you as well. Yet as much as my body is screaming at me, I simply must know, at least, what you want from this before we go any further. I need to know if I am to content myself with a singular night of _more_ , or even a singular moment, in your arms, or if I may hope for something, well, more."

Exasperatedly, Sherlock gripped the sides of Mycroft's head again, fixing his gaze on him. "Can't you deduce it, Mycroft?"

"Sentiment is the one poison of rationality. I cannot trust my deductions in this matter, for I have far too much of it. You have me, quite literally, at a disadvantage."

"Trust it – there is no other deduction that may be made on these facts. Let's not waste any more time, Mycroft." At Mycroft's uncertain look, he huffed. He closed his eyes tightly, unwilling or unable to look at Mycroft as he bared his heart. "I am gaining an appreciation of why you need me to say it in words, but it does not make it any easier." After a few more moments of struggle, he continued, "After so many years of…of _loving_ you, I have thought of everything this relationship would entail, the hiding and the subterfuge. And yet, I simply could not be satisfied with a singular moment, a singular night, or day, or year, or dare I say, life. Jump in to the deep end with me, Mycroft."

Mycroft dipped his head slowly, nuzzling, brushing his nose against Sherlock's. "You were always the bigger risk-taker of the two of us," he murmured.

"Safe is boring." Sherlock closed the distance between their lips. He sucked at Mycroft's bottom lip, nipping at it, while his hands went directly to Mycroft's arse, squeezing it rhythmically and encouraging him to move again.

Mycroft's resistance crumbled under Sherlock's assault on his senses, and he threw caution to the wind. He ratcheted up the heat of the kiss, swiftly getting them back to where they were before, biting and sucking his way down Sherlock's neck, to his clavicle at the edge of his shirt.

It was quickly too much, too fast, and they were desperate to get their hands on the other, far too desperate to bother with shirts and jackets, going straight for each other's trousers. Sherlock fumbled for a moment as Mycroft accomplished his goal first, his hand fingers now wrapped around Sherlock's cock. With a wicked grin, Mycroft gave him a few firm strokes, and Sherlock gasped as he desperately pushed at Mycroft's pants to exact his retribution.

Mycroft ceded control as he focused on holding himself above Sherlock, and focused on the tantalising slide of cock against cock. He worked his hips in counterpoint to Sherlock's hand, and before too long, he was groaning and bit down hard on Sherlock's shirt-clad shoulder as he came. The pain from his shoulder chased his pleasure, pushing Sherlock to climax as well, his cum mixing with the splatters from Mycroft on both of their shirts.

Releasing his jaw, Mycroft moved his head sideways, kissing at Sherlock's neck, "Apologies, darling," he murmured.

"Whatever the hell for?" Sherlock demanded, his brain struggling to fire back online.

"Well… I bit you."

"Oh, that. I quite enjoyed that, actually." Sherlock felt Mycroft's brow rise against his face.

"Discovered a kink, have we?"

Sherlock grinned stupidly. "I will need more data sets to form a reliable finding on that."

Mycroft chuckled and raised his head. "I live to serve."

"Don't you just." Sherlock ran a hand through Mycroft's hair. "I'm very glad to have managed to convince you."

"I think I was doomed the moment I stepped into the room." Mycroft huffed, and was about to say something else when he noticed the mess between them. "Well." He started laughing. "Stay right there and do not move, Sherlock Holmes. Save the letters from a fate only slightly better than the fire."

**

Later, once letters, body parts, and soiled clothing had been tucked away, and bodies showered, the brothers found themselves lying close together on Mycroft's bed, limbs entangled.

"This is very strange," Sherlock spoke into the silence.

"Given that nothing about this is normal, maybe you could elaborate on which aspect it is you're troubled by."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I was referring to us spending time together without fighting, but perhaps I spoke too soon."

Mycroft stroked his hand soothingly along Sherlock's side. "It is rather nice to simply enjoy your company. I'm sure we will still fight over any number of things, but we can still have times like this, can't we? Preferably not solely after sex?"

"Hmm. Couldn't hurt, though, could it?"

"On the contrary. But though I want many things, Sherlock, not one of them is to use sex as a tool with you."

Sherlock wrapped his legs more firmly around one of Mycroft's own, pulling him further into his space. "Don't be daft, My. I would never ask you to treat it as a means to an end. What is it you do want?"

Mycroft was silent for a long while as he thought, and Sherlock could almost see the thoughts race through his mind as they looked at each other. Mycroft thought about all the fantasies he had ever had of Sherlock; no, they were not just sexual ones, or even predominantly sexual: he wished for more quiet nights spent together in bed, talking; to come home late from work to find a sleeping Sherlock; to dinners and breakfasts and weekends reading, laughing, fighting, kissing; to being surprised at work by Sherlock and crashing his diary because of it; to continue to crash his diary because Sherlock needed him; to walking the streets and gardens and dark alleyways of London hand in hand; to watch in horror when his hair would start to get salted with white, just like their father's.

Finally, he simply said, "I want everything, Sherlock. I know I shouldn't, but I want absolutely everything that you would be willing to give to me, and share with me."

Sherlock gripped on Mycroft's hair firmly. "Just chuck the fact that we are brothers out the window, My. It has already caused us an unending amount of unnecessary torture. You haven't harmed me in doing this, and I don't believe I have harmed you in return. Who else should matter?"

"Given the social and legal prohibitions against incest, I'd say rather a lot more people."

"Social conventions are for the goldfish who don't know better than to question the society they submit themselves to. As for the law, are we not Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes? Surely between the two of us we have and no doubt will continue to circumvent those to our benefit, with none the wiser. So really, this conversation is utterly insipid."

Mycroft sighed. "I think it's just rather hard to accept that this..state of us, something that I've always thought as being outside the realm of probability, is actually happening. And you're absolutely sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, Mycroft. I will say it as often as it takes to get it through your thick head, though you know I absolutely loathe repeating myself. It is the greatest irony that I don't have a treasure hoard for you, and I probably shouldn't start now, so I'll just have to show you that you already have more of me than you realise. I know that we say caring is not an advantage, or that sentiment is found on the losing side – but there really aren't any meaningful sides when we're both on the same one. So I don't mind saying that I love you, My, because I know you feel the same."

Mycroft leaned forward for a grateful kiss. "Nevertheless, you should also hear in so many words that I love you too, Sherlock – my darling – so very dearly."

**

The next morning, Mycroft was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock was still asleep next to him. On the spur of the moment – imagine that, Mycroft Holmes, acting on impulse! – he texted Anthea to tell her that he would be taking a personal day, and that he was only to be contacted in case of a national emergency.

Regrettably, Anthea required proof of life, and so he had to sneak out of his own bed to talk to her, as he refused to ever make, much less send, a selfie.

After refusing to answer probing questions and delegating to her all non-essential decisions, he returned to an irritated Sherlock, who had woken up as he left the room.

"I was starting to think that I would have to chase you down from wherever you'd absconded to," Sherlock said.

"I haven't absconded." Mycroft came to sit on the edge of the bed. "I was simply arranging to take the day off, as I believe we will need the time to talk, and plan. Assuming, of course, that you do still want to pursue this."

"I'm not going to change my mind, My. Stop worrying. Now, will you get back into bed so I can show you how very appreciative I am to have a whole day with you?"

"Well, if you insist."

Sherlock tugged at Mycroft's pyjama top, causing him to topple, and rolled them so he was pinning Mycroft to the bed. He grinned wickedly.

"I really do. You're mine now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is complete!! Soft!Sherlock and Soft!Mycroft's origin story. What did you think?
> 
> Much love to all of you who have been reading along with my helter-skelter writing. Twas certainly interesting to go back and try and fill in the middle bit of the story, lol. (For those of you finding this after 2 Nov 2020, move along, nothing to see here...)


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